depends on people who’ve never tastedwar, and act offended when one leaves workon time. Not that I ever lay hiding

dying in a ditch, but if I had, I think that I’dknow much about dry grass, the incredible value of it:just to see the stalksmove would be enough.

I’d like to have time to type this,but all day long they’re looking over my shoulder.I do

feel sorry for them. What’s it liketo care so much? Talk morning and nightto a proctor-god, tidy your toy box before bed:to get degrees, have interests –is that the anti-war?

Is that why I can’t even read? I know there’s war all around me,and inside there’s war: who died, who cheated,when will she look at me like that,what language is this, I hope no-one breaks in and rapes us.I never see sunlight.

The sun in the yard is socontentless, it almost heals.

It is a series of chamberswhere I’m shownwhat I do have: weight.Electricity. A sense of balance. Can that be enough?I don’t know how to end this:

a fadeout on the grass? A copout.Something a sexy girl poet would say, like“The terrorists have won, kiss me awake”—

encore, cock your boot, show us your boobs!I’m so fucking tired of the sound of “sexy”

of me being sexy, muse-bodywith ship-launch face:

I can’t read because I’m dying, that’s the truth,I’d rather take in this sunlight like a dog.You theorize your own way out of this paper bag.What’s